


pins and needles

by scriptureofashes



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: College, Drabble, M/M, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Prompt Fic, Sort Of, Superfamily (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-15 04:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17522246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriptureofashes/pseuds/scriptureofashes
Summary: Peter always thought it was a joke.





	pins and needles

**Author's Note:**

> "Can I make a prompt request? Peter (a student) is stressing majorly over an essay he has to have finished in a few days, and he’s sleep deprived. After his 3rd all nighter, while pouring his 5th or so cup of coffee, he dozes off and pours hot coffee all over his hand. He plays it off as a joke and tries to go back to typing, but Tony and Steve are having absolutely none of it."
> 
> I wrote this like a billion years ago in response to this request on tumblr so I thought I might as well put it up here too
> 
> If the person who requested this is reading this then tell me so I can gift it to you!

Peter always thought it was a joke. An exaggeration, he means. Something blown out of proportion to make college life sound harder than it actually is, to the point where it was pretty much a running gag rather than an actual phenomenon.

Staring at his laptop, eyes white-hot and fingers _vibrating_ on the keyboard, he realizes he was wrong. He was so wrong about what he thought college was going to be like. Easier, a place where you’re in your element and all that prejudice you suffer through high school becomes utter and complete crap, and a time your life starts to forge itself at last.

He was so, _so_ wrong about the _easier_ part, college really is the land of hell and sleep deprivation, he thinks to himself, and cracks open his third can of Red Bull. The numbers 3:07 stare at him almost impatiently from the corner of his too bright screen, as does the blinking text cursor on his newly opened Google document. Keyword: _newly_.

He has an essay due Friday, which is in two days’ time, and _he hasn’t even started it yet_.

He’s been so caught up between his surprisingly demanding job at the Bugle as a photographer for Spider-Man and his work _as_ Spider-Man every night that he fell behind on a monstrous pile of college essays and papers for all of his classes, due the same _week_.

He doesn’t know when he started to carry coffee around everywhere, or how he’s pulled more than a couple all-nighters after some particular nights of rough crime-fighting. Then there’s May at the hospital, a can of worms he’s not opening.

He’s been _managing_ , to say the least. Meet required attendance. Go to eight AM lectures. Report to Mr. Stark (after the events of the so called Infinity Wars he now reports to him _directly_ ) about Spider-Man. Report to Jameson. Get screamed at. Check up on May. Get possibly screamed at again. Put on the suit and patrol the city. Get beat at. Stumble into his dorm room (with new scrapes and bruises over the healing ones). Check due work. Drink coffee or energy drink (or both, twice). Get to work.

Lather, rinse and repeat.

But it’s either this or give up one of the following: college or Spider-Man. And his thoughts on that go without saying, so he just sighs, shakes his head to clear the psychedelic outbreak of colors in his eyes, and burns the midnight oil.

 

* * *

 

During lunch on Thursday, Mr. Stark texts him an invitation to hang out at the compound. He’s attended a nine AM lecture and his follow-up morning classes on zero sleep, has yet to eat something since coming back from patrol _last night_ and is on his way to visit Aunt May.

He misses his mentor. He still keeps in touch with Ned despite different college choices, occasionally passes MJ on some hallway and Harry’s inbox is always available, but it’s Tony Stark he can talk to about anything and everything. He knows what he’s been through. He knows what it’s like. He _knows_.

Aunt May has always been his rock—a guiding hand at his right. Mr. Stark’s is at his left.

Peter texts back his acceptance, figuring he can just take his laptop with him to the compound and finish his essay there.

 

* * *

 

“Didn’t you pick the place _and_ the movie last time?”

“Yes, yes I did, because my good tastes take us to the best Italian restaurants in the city and movies with actual _plot_ instead of some Morgan Freeman wannabe narrated documentary about mosquitoes.”

“That was one time, Tony.”

“My pants legit zipped themselves up, Rogers. Sexy beard or no sexy beard. _Mosquitoes_.”

Peter regrets a lot of things in his life. Uncle Ben is a no-brainer. Hopping on a donut spaceship is another. Going to college is now one of them, and so is his decision to major in biophysics, which comes with the one to stay up for three nights in a row fueled by nothing except four cups of coffee and at least five different energy drinks.

He also regrets being stupid enough to get bit by a radioactive spider. His enhanced metabolism can go jump in the lake, because it makes the caffeine he’s been relying on utterly _useless_. He’s downed enough coffee to induce cardiac arrest—were he a bit more on the human side—yet the buzz he needs lasts only enough for him to type about fifteen words in before exhaustion comes back to rear its ugly head.

 _It’s happening now_ , he notes, as words swim in his eyes and the sound of Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers bantering about their eventful dates drowns out. He grasps the Starbucks Happy bought for him when picking him up, and it takes him more than he’d like to admit to register the hot splash and the sudden, searing _pain_ in his right hand.

“Why are we even discussing it? You said you wanted to see Ocean’s 8 last Thurs— _Peter_!”

Oh, so the scream really did come from him.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell happened?”

Mr. Stark is off the couch’s arm and by his side before Peter can blink away his tears, holding and inspecting the back of his hand. Peter just shakes his head and his burning hand, more concerned about the coffee he just spilled _all over his keyboard_.

“Nothing! I just spilled coffee on my hand, it’s no big deal.”

“You just spilled _hot_ coffee on your hand. No big deal my ass.”

Mr. Stark starts to pull him from his seat on the kitchen island, and Peter wants to reassure him it’s fine, he’s _fine_ , even as he feels his hand blister and tears run down his face. He needs to finish this essay, he’s been slacking too much, his grades—

It’s when he hears water running and Captain Rogers saying, “Even Spider-Man needs to rest, kid,” that he realizes he’s been talking out loud. Mr. Stark’s hand is back on his and holding it under the water, ice cold and mind-blowingly relieving. Peter’s breath, uneven and like so unnoticed, steadily slows down enough for him to sigh and rub at his eyes.

Mr. Stark stares at him through the whole process. “When’s the last time you slept, Peter?”

“I’m not sure,” he lies. Mr. Stark gives him a _look_. “Three days ago?”

“ _Three days ago?_ ”

“How have you managed to stay awake?” Captain Rogers asks. He’s cleaning up the coffee on the table and the computer. He’s also frowning at the screen.

“Coffee? Like,” Peter rubs his eyes again, “Lots of it. About… five cups a day, I think.”

“ _Five_ cups?” Mr. Stark repeats, turning off the faucet. He’s angry. “You’ve been drinking five cups of coffee a _day_? Kid, do you even realize what that does do you?”

“Uh, pot meet kettle?”

His mouth actually snaps shut at that. And anyone else would pass it for imagination, but Peter hears Rogers _snort_ from his spot in front of Peter’s laptop.

“Okay, no. It’s one thing for me to do it. And in my defense, I don’t do it as often now.” Mr. Stark produces some sort of ointment tube out of a cabinet and wastes no time in rubbing it onto Peter’s hand. “You, however, are too young to start doing that already.”

Peter swallows back a remark on Mr. Stark’s age and says, “I had no choice, okay? You know that my metabolism is sort of shot through the roof. One or two wasn’t gonna cut it.”

“And you couldn’t manage to sleep a couple of hours in _three days_ to recharge and write the essay?”

“ _No_. It’s been… I… Between eight and nine AM lectures, patrolling the city and Aunt May in the hospital, I just… I didn’t have time, I kept _trying_ but I always get back to my dorm so late it’s practically early, but my grade depends on this essay—”

“Okay, okay, okay.” Mr. Stark’s free hand rubs his shoulder the moment Peter’s anxiety makes a clear stand. “I understand, kid, I understand. But you’re allowed to cut back if your grades are slipping. You _know_ that. You didn’t cut back in high school and it wasn’t pretty, remember? You have to cut back.”

Peter nods his head along. “Yes, yes I do, but the due date is tonight at _midnight_ and I haven’t even met the minimum words required, and I still need to visit Aunt May—”

“What’s your major, Peter?” Captain Rogers interrupts smoothly. “If you don’t mind me asking, that is.”

“Uh, biophysics.”

Rogers nods. “And what’s the essay about?”

“Ah, well, you see—”

“Honey, you know I mean no offense when I say I might be of more help there—”

“Yes, I know, it’s okay. It’s just that,” and Rogers looks like he wants to smile but tightens his lips instead, “I’m reading some of what you wrote, Peter, and I’m pretty sure the recipe for homemade chicken nuggets has nothing to do with Physics.”

Peter stares. Mr. Stark stares.

“ _What_.”

“Okay, so here’s what we’re gonna do,” Mr. Stark starts, now wearing a similar expression to the Captain’s, already maneuvering Peter around the kitchen counter. “We’re gonna get you some chicken nuggets—”

Peter laughs a bit too hard at that. His burn is now a dull throb, thanks to his advanced healing and Mr. Stark’s quick reaction.

“Now, seriously. We’re gonna get you to bed so you can sleep like the dead, I’m going to go through your work and help you out—”

“No, Mr. Stark, you don’t have to do that—”

“I said I was gonna help you out, as in leave a few pointers. I’m not going to write it for you, kid. Lord knows you can probably do a better job than me.”

Peter opens his mouth to counter _that_ , but then it’s Rogers guiding him out of the room instead, Mr. Stark already sat in front of his laptop. The Captain’s hand on his shoulder is gentle, so gentle he’s remembering how _tired_ he is. It’s even gentler when he sways on the spot and it steadies him.

“You’re going to get some sleep while Tony works his magic,” Rogers says with a reassuring smile. Mr. Stark is already typing as he speaks. “We’ll explain everything to your aunt, she’ll understand. And we’ll wake you up before midnight, enough for you to finish this essay and for us to have a long overdue talk about how to properly balance your school life and Spider-Man.”

“I’ll arrange a time schedule for you and all that jazz,” Mr. Stark adds. “Complete with tips on how to control one’s spidery alter-ego, how to study something that one twerp professor makes you hate with every fiber of your being and how to keep yourself from murdering your snoring roommate.”

Peter blinks. “You listen to my voicemails?”

“I happened to stumble upon that one. And the one about how you scaled a building just to get to class in time and climbed in through the window five seconds before the professor and the _security guard_ arrived. Now that’s a story I gotta hear.”

He stops typing and stares at Peter for a few long moments.

“Go catch some Z’s, kid. You’ll be okay.”

Then he goes back to typing.

As he’s steered in the direction of his complimentary compound bedroom, Cap leans in and whispers, “Yes, he does listen. And he always reads your texts, by the way, even if he doesn’t always reply.”

“I can hear you two conspiring, Steve!”

They reach the open door of his bedroom, the bed so inviting Peter nearly throws himself on it, shoes and jeans be damned.

On his way back, Cap ruffles his hair.

“Sleep well, Peter. Everything will be okay.”

Later, as he works the last two paragraphs of a much more impressive essay on zilch caffeine and six hours of sleep, Mr. Stark at his side with a mug of tea much like his own and the Captain’s, a half-empty family box of KFC and the Discovery channel on background, Peter thinks he really might just be.


End file.
